


Meet Me in the Woods

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Magic, First Meetings, Flirting, Forests, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: The voice that slips out from between the thing’s lips is disturbingly human; as if Geralt were speaking to one of the villagers. “What are you doing in my forest?” it asks, lifting its chin and regarding Geralt with a cool gaze. One of the creature’s hands rests on the withering trunk of a tree. Geralt doesn’t miss at how the thing’s thumb smoothes against the bark. “Have you come to harm it?”That...hmm.He’s bargained with creatures in the past. Not all of them are as mindless and cruel as humans seem to think. Most can be lured to do something else, rather than meet the end of Geralt’s sword. Geralt’s jaw clenches. “No,” he replies.--A different first meeting where Geralt wanders into a nearby forest to investigate strange voices heard by the locals.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 48
Kudos: 640





	1. Chapter 1

Most contracts tend to start the same. He’s gotten used to eyes watching him, farmers or townsfolk wringing their hats in their hands and dropping their gaze as soon as he glances over. More often than not, they’ll only speak if he approaches them. And then the information comes flowing out.

He doesn’t expect the layman to be well versed in monsters. Often, what people describe, and what Geralt encounters, are two very different things. So he’s learned to be prepared – Vesemir would be proud, if not slightly annoyed that Geralt should always be prepared no matter what. He makes sure that his pack is loaded with every potion he could ever need, and that he has three vials of it _at least_. His swords are sharp and sit comfortably in their sheathes, only an arm’s reach away. Roach is always fed, but not overly so. In case he ever has to send her galloping back, he makes sure her stomach isn’t too laden with grass and oats.

This contract starts like the rest. The dirt path underneath him gives way as he trudged through, the night before having been soaked with rainwater. The tavern of the village was kind enough to house him for the night, but with the winds beginning to nip, he would have to start thinking about heading north soon. But one last contract, just to line the inside of his coin purse. Then he’ll go.

They must have had some sort of meeting while he slept. They wait for him. As he leads Roach out of her stall and dresses her in her tack, he feels the familiar warmth of eyes on him. And now, leading the mare out and on to the main road, he can still feel people watching him. His ears twitch at the sound of whispers shrouded in the darker shadows of the village, of the same people who watch him but are still too nervous to approach.

They want him for something. He doesn’t have to catch one of their eyes to know that. Something isn’t quite right about the village. It sits at the foot of a mountain, shrouded in thick forest. He’s been to villages and towns and cities that have burrowed underneath his skin. A medallion hanging from his neck didn’t have to tremble to let him know that something isn’t quite right. And he gets that feeling about this place – yet sleep was friendly enough to him last night, waiting in the shadows of the room until his head met the thin pillow of his tavern bed and took its time creeping over him.

Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of footfalls. A woman strides forward, as meek and shy as the rest of them. She gathers her shawl tighter around her, looking down at the fraying edge of it rather than at the Witcher. Even on her short walk over to him, he watches her chew her lip. Her brows knit together.

“We’ve been hearing voices, Witcher,” one of the women said. A slight tremor shook through her words. She refused to meet his eye – not something he could ever blame her for. He can only imagine what golden cat eyes must look like to someone who hasn’t seen anything odd in their life.

Geralt hums. “What kind of voices?”

“It depends,” she says. The hold she has around herself tightens. Comforting. Or staving off the worst chill of a breeze that tumbles through the main road that cuts through the village. He isn’t sure. But he watches her – watches the slight bulge of her jaw as she tastes her words, trying her best to speak them as they sit perched on the tip of her tongue. Sometimes, in these kinds of moments, he wishes that Witchers had kinder faces. He’s sure some do; not all of them look as battle-hardened and weary as he does. But he’s sure the ever-present scowl on his face doesn’t help loosen the woman’s tongue at all.

She takes a deep breath. “We’ve all heard them.” Fidgeting with the fraying edges of her shawl, she forces herself to just breathe. “They’ve...It doesn’t sit right with any of us.”

Just over her shoulder, Geralt spots some villagers huddled together. They drop their heads as soon as he catches their eyes, but from the sobering look on their face, he can tell that something has indeed been happening here. Plenty of things don’t _sit right_ with humans. Witchers certainly don’t. Villages swaddled by farming and their own affairs rarely see anything out of the ordinary.

Roach shifts her weight, nudging his side with her head. He scratches her chin, mulling over everything the woman has told him. She doesn’t look like a liar. Geralt can tell them from a mile off. Nothing about her tells him that she’s lying, or even stretching the truth. Plenty of people have heard voices in the forest, even more people have heard screaming; and almost always, these noises turn out to be nothing more than the yelping of foxes or the screeching of owls.

But he doubts the things plaguing this particular village are anything like that. 

She thins her lips. “Witcher, I,” she falters for a moment, “I know you have other places to be, but we wouldn’t have asked unless we needed the help.”

Villages this far inland are hardy things, especially sheltered by the shadow of a mountain and the shawl of a thick forest. The people look hollowed. He didn’t notice it passing, but looking out on the few pastures beyond the fences of the village, he notices the crops still sitting out bearing the brunt of the chilling wind. The harvests haven’t even been done yet. Geralt looks at the woman – really _looks._ She’s tired. A gaunt face made even gaunter by shadows settling into the nooks of her cheeks and under her eyes. The other villagers don’t look any better. A rumbling noise slips out of his chest. “Alright,” he says. “Show me.”

* * *

The woman – Valka – tells him what she can remember. At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow. Everyone _has_ heard these voices in one way or the other. That’s fine. Geralt nods at each person that recounted their experience to him. All of the voices that have been heard slip out through the shadows of the forest. But what does catch him is, even though they all agree that something _is_ out there, they’ve all argued about who, or what, it is. He’s not unfamiliar with unrest in villages and towns plagued by monsters. There will inevitably be those who want to go out and hunt it on their own, and regrettably end up dead. After that fact, Geralt is usually hired; when a village or town cannot lose more of its own to something they cannot fight against. And he’s dealt with people all having their own theories about what could be lurking beyond the walls of their settlements.

But he frowns at each person saying the voices sound different. Women say that they hear men, men say that they hear women. A few shyer members, who speak to him outside as he readies his saddlebags, confess that they’ve heard people of the same sex or that they haven’t heard anything at all.

And that...is strange.

He tries to peel back every memory of every lesson he ever had with Vesemir, and every blasted book the elder made him pour over. His first instinct is to say it’s a siren, but the village is land-locked, and while he _has_ seen sirens migrate further inland, why would it keep itself to the undergrowth of a forest?

Some sort of nymph then, or a particularly soft-spoken incubus.

What keeps catching him is the voices. They all sound different to anyone who hears it.

Geralt ties the last of his bags to Roach and starts on his short trek to the forest’s edge. Those who had gathered into Valka’s house see him off, watching from the woman’s door as the Witcher slips away into the shadows. Waning weather means shorter days and longer nights. Geralt glances up, regarding the sky for a moment. Grey clouds heavy with rain slump over the slopes of the mountain, settled over the village but not quite giving out just yet. The winds have picked up too, nipping at any exposed skin they can find. Roach shivers once, but with her winter coat coming in, she won’t be cold for long.

He leaves her to the outskirts of the forest, where the trees are still stretched far between and there’s a clear sight of the village nearby. Rooting through his saddlebags, he takes in the sight of thickening trunks and a canopy that seems to shield the forest floor from any light at all. It’s dark, so much so that his eyes have to adjust to it. He can understand why no one in the village would want to stray any farther. It’s only until the last buckle of Roach’s bags is done up does he recognise the silence strung over the forests.

He’s lived for longer than he should. If the acolytes in the schools were going to spend their time and energy into making mutants like him, they might as well live for as long as possible. It takes him a moment to remember just how old he is, with years slipping by unnoticed. In that time, he’s seen more monsters than most. Some are more common than others, and some only come out at certain times of the year. But he knows what a quiet forest means – something knows he’s there, and it’s watching.

His hand rests on the pommel of his sword. Strapped to his waist, it’s never too far away from being drawn. With his potions buckled to his belt, and Roach knowing where she needs to stay and wait for him to return, he heads off.

The silence is deafening. There might be noise. If there is, he doesn’t know if it’s true noise or something that his mind could be making up to fill the quiet. He strains, listening for just about anything. No birds call overhead or flutter out of their nests at the presence of him. No rabbits or foxes break through the undergrowth to scurry back to their burrows. It’s quiet. Leaves and twigs jostle underneath his boot, though he tries to keep his footfalls sure and steady. Whatever might be lurking here knows he’s here.

The forest stretches on. Each time he glances over his shoulder, at the path behind him, he makes sure that he can find his way back out again. Some of the path has closed; brushes and shrugs that did part for him, but now lean over and knit back together again. When he was nothing more than a wolf cub, he was afraid of the forests of Kaer Morhen. Vesemir told them enough night-terror inducing stories by the hearth to instil a healthy amount of caution into each and every pup he looked after. But with that came the sinking feeling in his stomach and the quickening of his breath. He’s not overly fond of forests; especially enchanted ones that seem keen to lure him in, and not so keen on letting him back out.

Each step forward is as quiet and gentle as he can make it. But one twig snaps under his boot and he fights off a wince. The crack lashes through the forest, almost echoing back off of the trunks surrounding him. He tightens the grip on his pommel. Heat blooms into his back and shoulders and the side of his face. He’s been watched. He can’t deny that. But everywhere he looks, the sprawling forest floor and each nook that has been dug into it by foxes and badgers, the low hanging branches that lead up to an entangled web of branches all stretched out and coiled around each other, he can’t see anything.

And then he hears it. His hackles lift at the shudder that runs through him.

It comes to him like a wave, washing over him like a ripple of water.

A voice. He tilts his head. A male voice, humming. Geralt’s brows knit together. Singing. No words. Nothing he can make out, anyway. It’s a tune, a thrill that a lover might let slip while threading fingers through your hair. It makes Geralt pause. He’s loath to disturb anything; leaves or twigs or low-hanging branches.

His ears twitch at the sound of rustling. With a white-knuckled grip on his pommel, with the sword peeking out of its sheathe, ready to be used, he spins towards the noise.

There, ducking under a branch and stepping out of the shroud, is a man. Geralt blinks, but keeps himself rooted. What he sees might be a man, but everything wafting off of him screams something else. The medallion hanging around Geralt’s neck trembles.

The creature, whatever it may be – because Geralt doesn’t have a fucking clue just yet –, tilts its head. It’s dressed in human clothes; a simple pair of breeches, coloured for the woods, and a shirt; enough buttons and laces undone to reveal a light smattering of hair. It’s barefoot, Geralt notices. It all looks so human, but something isn’t quite right. Geralt has gotten used to seeing through the ruse monsters cloak themselves in. Vampires and succubae smile and bat their lashes and lure with soft-spoken voices. Whatever this is seems to be capable of doing the same.

The creature hums. Eyes fall on to Geralt, as if noticing that the Witcher is there, and the singing stops. The silence left behind is deafening.

The voice that slips out from between the thing’s lips is disturbingly human; as if Geralt were speaking to one of the villagers. “What are you doing in my forest?” it asks, lifting its chin and regarding Geralt with a cool gaze. One of the creature’s hands rests on the withering trunk of a tree. Geralt doesn’t miss at how the thing’s thumb smoothes against the bark. “Have you come to harm it?”

That... _hmm_.

He’s bargained with creatures in the past. Not all of them are as mindless and cruel as humans seem to think. Most can be lured to do something else, rather than meet the end of Geralt’s sword. Geralt’s jaw clenches. “No,” he replies. Because that’s true. If whatever this thing is can read his thoughts, at least he doesn’t have to worry about concealing a lie. It helps to be painfully honest with some creatures.

The creature looks at him with a tilted head. Geralt watches his reply swirl behind human eyes. It hums, patting the tree’s trunk and stepping out so Geralt can get a good look at him. Some light manages to break through the canopy, streaks of pale afternoon light stretching down through the branches. One of them manages to catch the creature. Its skin doesn’t change colour or he doesn’t seem particularly adverse to the light. Well, Geralt can cross vampire off—

The creature laughs. It’s a light thing, perfectly suited to the voice it’s chosen for itself. “You would like to know what I am,” it says through a brilliant smile. It’s delighted, Geralt notices. And he doesn’t know how to respond to that. The creature glances down at Geralt’s chest, nodding to the steel wolf’s head hanging there. “Am I the first of my kind you’ve met Witcher?”

“I don’t know what you’re kind is,” Geralt answers honestly. The grip on his sword’s pommel hasn’t let up. The embossed rings around the handle dig into his palm and fingers. Monsters can smile and lull their words with people, but it often ends with teeth embedded in necks.

The creature circles him, eyes watching, appraising. “You’re the first of your kind that I’ve met,” it says after a time. Each footfall is as silent as the last. The undergrowth of twigs and leaves barely twitch with every step the creature takes around Geralt. It’s just as tall as him, though lithe and graceful.

Geralt keeps the creature in his sight, even when it slips behind him. “You knew what I was by my medallion.”

“I can know what you are without having met you,” the creature says through a light laugh. The face and body that the creature wears are young, maybe a man just reaching into the lull of adulthood. But the eyes that watch him are ageless yet old at the same time; eyes that have seen everything. They lock on to the medallion hanging around his throat. The creature lets out a breathless laugh. “A wolf is in my forest. Fun. We’ve never had a wolf before.”

Geralt clears his throat. “The villagers hired me. They’ve heard voices and got frightened.” he tilts his head. “Have you tried to lure any of them in here?”

“Hmm?” The creature’s eyes suddenly widen. “Oh, no, no! Nothing like that. I didn’t know that they could even hear me. I was just having some fun.”

 _Fun._ Hmm.

Geralt’s eyes barely manage to stay where they are, and not roll to the back of his head. “Your _fun_ scares them.” Something flashes in the creature’s eyes. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you could hardly blame them. They start hearing things in the deep, dark forest, and what are they to think.”

The creature stops once it’s standing in front of Geralt again. It’s close, having no problem being within a slashing reach of Geralt and his sword – something he’s still hanging on to, just in case. The creature mulls Geralt’s words over, tilting his head slightly. “I’m a creature of life, Witcher. Why would I want to cause harm? If anyone in the village thought I did, then I’m terribly sorry.”

And that could be that. He could slap the creature on its wrist, tell it not to do that again, and be on his way. The winds are changing and his bones are aching. He just wants to go home, to the keep where he can sleep off this strange year. Not every contract he claims ends in a death. Sometimes, the smarter monsters can be reasoned with. Geralt’s grip on his sword slackens slightly, but he’s loath to uncurl his fingers just yet. “Well, if you’re not going to harm anyone,” he says slowly, letting the creature savour his words, “then I’ll be off. If you want to keep singing, try and keep it to the forest.”

And he goes to go.

The creature tilts its head. “What if I don’t want you to leave?” The corner of the thing’s lips twitches. Geralt looks at the creature just in time to see it climb up on to a fallen branch, perching on it and letting his legs hand. “This is _my_ forest, after all. Anything and everything in it belongs to me; including you, and your lovely mare. A beautiful colour; chestnut red, like autumn leaves, or a warming fire.”

Geralt blinks. Of course it knows about Roach. “How long have you known me to be here?”

“As soon as you spoke to Valka,” the creature lilts. There’s a rhythm to his voice, a lull about it that Geralt isn’t bothered by at all. It’s...nice. Something flashes across the creature’s face, but it’s gone with the changing winds. “I don’t think she likes me. Or the rest of them.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Geralt asks. “Trying to make friends?”

The creature regards him for a moment. “You’re just as alone as me, Witcher,” it says after a time. “But the difference between me and you is that you can walk among them. I cannot.”

“Why not?”

The creature gestures to itself. “Look at me, Witcher, and tell me what you see.”

It could be a trick. Testimonies from the villagers flood back to him. Some hear men, others hear women, and few hear nothing at all. If any of them were to have wandered this far into the forest, he wonders what they might have seen. Or who. Geralt lifts his chin. “A man,” he says simply, because it’s true. What sits in front of him now, perched on a fallen tree trunk, swinging its legs and letting its toes brush the undergrowth, _is_ a man.

It tilts its head. “Oh?”

“Does that surprise you?”

The creature doesn’t reply for a moment. “Yes,” it says after a time. “I’m surprised.”

“How so?”

“I’m surprised that you see anything at all. I thought magic didn’t work on Witchers,” the creature says. With one last swing of its legs, it hops down on to the ground. Geralt’s grip on his sword tightens again, but he doesn’t draw it. Not yet, at least. The creature’s eyes drop down to his hand. A small smile curls along his lip. Every step it draws near, the creature’s smile grows into something that looks like amusement. “I’m not here to hurt you, Witcher. And I hope you aren’t here to hurt me.”

“What would you do if I were?”

The creature thins its lips, musing for a moment. It tilts his head back. The stretch of muscle in its neck, the way hair dusts his eyes, so much so that he has to reach up and brush it to the side. He regards the forest’s trees for a moment. “I’m not quite sure,” he hums, “but I’m certain that they would help me.”

“They?”

“The trees,” the man offers simply, with a slight shrug of his shoulder – as if that was something Geralt ought to have known. “And the winds, and the creatures living here. I don’t want to have to harm you, but the birds here are particularly boisterous and I would hate for anything to happen to those lovely eyes of yours.”

The creature’s eyes are blue. No, it’s more than that – a blue Geralt has only ever seen in gems, in the seas of southern countries that reflect bright sunlight, that ripple and sparkle and catch his breath. There’s something about this creature, some alluring charm that wisps off of him and curls around Geralt. He’s had walls lowered by blushing maidens and frightened children, all of them ending up baring sharp teeth and devastating claws as soon as his guard is low enough.

But there’s no sense of dread with this creature. The thick, sinking feeling in his stomach doesn’t come, nor the quickening of his breath. Everything, somehow, is calm.

The creature turns on its heel, walking further into the forest. It would have been the rest of Geralt’s trail, if the creature hadn’t stopped him. It claims a few paces before it glances over its shoulder. “Come,” it says simply, before heading off.

He should leave. He should just turn on his heel and head back. Maybe the creature would make good on its promise to keep him entombed in here, ever circling the forest floor, slowly being driven mad by paths taken and retaken again. He takes a sobering breath.

Following the creature isn’t easy. The further into the forest they trek, the thicker the floor becomes. The canopy above knits together and blocks out most of the sunlight, with some stray beams managing to wrangle through the leaves and stretch down towards the floor. Geralt looks up at the distant, muffled rumble of thunder. The storm has rolled in.

The creature regards the canopy too, but says nothing else.

If Vesemir saw him now, he dreads to think what the elder would do to him; probably string him up from the height tree. He’s being stupid. At no point ever in his life has he ever willingly followed a monster further into its domain. The point is always to lure it _out_. Though, watching how easily the creature strides through the undergrowth, setting its hand on tree trunks and low branches to guide itself, he wonders idly if it could survive if it wasn’t here.

He pauses.

“Are you fae?” The question slips out of him before he can catch himself. He’s too far into the forest now. He won’t be able to outrun the creature, so he’ll have to fight it if it turns on him.

But he blinks at the sight of a brilliant smile that greets him when the creature turns around. It lifts its chin. “I am,” he says, inclining his head slightly. A bow, a greeting. “Though I don’t think it’s wholly appropriate to call people by their race, so a name will have to do. My actual name is quite difficult for people in this world to pronounce,” the creature says, “but I go by Jaskier.”

Named for a flower, and sings like a lark. _Jaskier_ watches him. Waiting for a reply. All at once, every lesson he’s ever learned about the fae flash before his eyes. Vesemir and other withering elder Witcher drilling each and every rule into the minds of young pups, eager to get out into the world.

 _Never, ever, give a fae your name_.

Jaskier’s smile crooks, but it’s no less as sweet. “Don’t mind all of that. Utter nonsense,” he waves his hand, turning to stride through the undergrowth again. Branches and thickets seem to part for him, letting him walk where he likes. They don’t do the same for Geralt. If anything, they knot together and get in his way and try and push him back out. When one root catches the toes of his boot, and Geralt near-stumbles, Jaskier clicks his tongue. He reaches out, setting his hand on a tree’s thick trunk. “Stop that,” he scolds, “the wolf is a friend.”

The root that had been in Geralt’s way sinks into the ground.

 _A friend_.

“You could have killed me,” Jaskier lilts, leading them towards what appears to be a clearing. “Or you could have hurt my forest. But you didn’t. You’re a friend in my eyes. I can assure you that you won’t come to any harm in this forest. Neither will your mare. She’s eating the finest blackberries and apples the forest can provide for her.”

Some sort of laugh slips out of him, though it’s more of a huff. He can imagine Roach now, snuffling at each plant and fruit that spurts out of the ground. She’s been his mount for a few years, and knows just how weird and strange the world can be.

The clearing is just as peaceful as the rest of the forest. Rain showers in, drenching the rock formation in the centre of the clearing. It’s shrouded in thick, emerald moss, and out of the crest of the formation, a single willow sapling stretches out, reaching for the light. Jaskier strides in, uncaring of the wet grass and mud that clings to his feet.

Geralt stays by the outskirts, watching intently as Jaskier clambers up the rocks to pluck a few strands of the willow’s hair from it. He sets a hand against its trunk, murmuring something under his breath. An apology, maybe. The rain soaks him. The hair that already dusted his eyes now sticks to his face, and he has to reach up to push it aside. His clothes hang to him, but they don’t hide anything Geralt hasn’t seen before. Jaskier is built stronger than he initially thought, but the creature is more quick than strong. He’s back in front of Geralt within a few strides. “Tell Valka that I’m sorry that I frightened her,” he says, handing Geralt wisps of willow hair. “This is a gift from me to the village.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “And what are they to do with this?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Goodness, wolf, don’t you know anything about the ethics of a forest.” The creature folds his arms in front of his chest. “They are to weave those strands into their own hair, or make necklace laces out of them. I don’t care what they do. But if they want to come into my forest that badly, they will have to wear those hairs. The forest will know to let them pass.”

“Wolf?”

Geralt turns. It’s as close as a name that he’s going to give to the fae. He arches an eyebrow. _Yes_?

Jaskier’s eyes catch a stray beam of light, turning an impossible shade of bright blue. “Would _you_ like anything?” The question dances on his tongue and lips.

 _Never, ever, take anything from a fae_. He can imagine Barwain’s scowling face now, as if the elder were standing in front of him. _But gods alive, if you have to, be **very** careful of your wording._

Best to say nothing at all. “No,” Geralt says firmly. Simple and safe.

Jaskier’s smile is delightful. “Alright,” he shrugs. People may know about the fae tricks, and know exactly how to work around them, but everything a fae does or says is a trick, and that’s when people stumble and before they know it, they’ve been turned into a tree, or a bird, or a shrub. He eyes what he passes, regarding each tree and bush with caution. Were any of these villagers or travellers who wandered in too far, trying to lure promises and wishes out of the fae? Who’s to know? He’s doubtful Jaskier will tell him the truth if he asked – or worse, he would.

Before he can blink, Jaskier strides off back down the path, back the way they came. “Come then,” he lilts, “I’ll escort you out.”

The journey back to Roach doesn’t seem as long. By the time he spots the mare, munching quite happily on a pile of fresh, red apples dropped at the roots of a tree, the sky is just starting to clear. The mare is loath to leave her banquet. With the coin Valka and the others gathered for him, he’s sure that he can source a sugar cube or two for Roach before heading to the mountains.

Jaskier lingers by the trees, where they’re still thick enough to shield him from the forest. He tilts his head. “Is there a forest where you’re from, wolf?”

Geralt focuses on adjusting the girth of Roach’s saddle. The mare huffs, but dutifully sucks in. If she’s going to be pried apart from her feast, she’s going to be bitter about it. Geralt hums. _Maybe_.

The fae nods, reaching out to card his fingers along a tree’s trunk. It’s matted in thick bark and spindling vines, but stands sturdy and strong. Jaskier nods again. “Alright,” he smiles, “well, I hope you have a good winter.”

Geralt looks up. The sight of a man still greets him. Looking at him now, he sees more. The slight point to the arch of his ears, the sharpened ends of a few teeth. How his eyes swirl in different shades, but ever blue all the same. Something ethereal about the man seems to lure him back into the forest.

Roach shifts her weight, knocking into him. He settles a hand against her neck, either to steady her or himself, he isn’t quite sure. “You too,” he manages to bumble out, mentally smacking himself. Even Roach looks at him, silently judging. He needs to leave.

He gathers the mare’s reins and leaves the forest. Every step he takes away, the worse the tugging in his chest gets. Clearing his throat, he keeps walking. Whatever lured him into the forest isn’t that keen on letting him go. The medallion hanging around his neck trembles.

He can feel eyes watching him.

And all of a sudden, when he steps back into the village to meet a gathering crowd, they’re gone. Coldness washes over him. He’s alone again.

Valka and the others half-storm him, still shy, but with a question perched on their tongues. _Is the monster dead?_

Geralt fishes Jaskier’s gift out of his saddlebags and explains everything to the villagers. Some take it better than others. Some deepen their scowls and grumble under their breaths. Another Witcher might pass through on their way north, and maybe they’ll have enough gall to kill the monster in the woods.

Geralt doubts it. Any of his brothers heading north will have done so already, or they would have taken the main road in hope of a few last contracts to line their coin purses. No one would have wandered this far out. And some part of him hopes that Jaskier is smart enough to keep to his promise and not bother these people any more. Though, he can’t say the same about those who turn away from him, muttering under their breaths about pitchforks and _marching in there_ themselves.

He’ll be fine, Geralt assures himself. His chest tightens at the thought of the trees cut down or the forest in flames. Or Jaskier splintered with iron.

He coils Valka’s hand around the willow hair in her hand. He tightens her fist around it. “He won’t bother you anymore,” he tells her softly, “but make sure you hang on to this.”

Valka watches him, some confused look flashing across her face. “He?” she asks. “Did you see it? Is it a _he_?”

Geralt draws in a breath. He should go. The further into autumn they trudge, the shorter the days are becoming. “He won’t hurt you,” he says again, softer, mostly lost to a passing wind.

Gathering Roach’s reins and hopping up on to her back, he sets his heels to her side, and they leave. He doesn’t look behind him – at the village or the forest. Some of it wraps around, stretching out into the path he’s about to take. Though the wind whips around him, slipping underneath his cloak and chilling any stretch of skin it can find, he listens. No voices get carried with it, no songs. Something pangs in his chest.

Roach is unsettled beneath him, wanting to break out into a canter and get as far away from this place as she can take them. He thinks about loosening the reins and letting her. Just when they’re far enough away from the village, when he can’t feel anything trying to burrow into his chest anymore, he sets his heels to Roach’s side and she gallops off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unnecessary and long sequel but one that I promised, so here it is!

The ridge comes into view. Geralt regards it for a moment. The caps are already laden with snow, with frost winds billowing down from the slopes. Setting his heels to Roach’s side, the mare carries them up the worn path to the keep perched at the top of the mountain. He’s late this year. Glancing down at the muddy path, he spots hoof prints. His brothers have already been through.

The climb never seems to get any shorter. With every step taken towards the keep, the more his bones wane. He wants to rest. Vesemir is kind to them in the first week – he lets them eat what they can and sleep through the nights and into the days. And then the work will have to start. He’s sure that the elder has enough chores backlogged for each of them to keep them busy throughout the season. Crumbling walls and game-rich forests wait for him.

When the trees start, only handfuls of evergreens clumped together along the path, something washes over him. He regards each cluster with a careful eye. The fae’s words still stick with him. Even in the days after fleeing that village, letting Roach take him as far away from that place as she could, he couldn’t shake off the voice. Words brushed the shell of his ear as he tried to sleep. And sleep was fitful. He tossed and turned, and if he did sleep, it was only for an hour at a time.

Roach nickers. Geralt snaps back to attention just in time to watch the mare’s ears flick forward.

He sees the keep. Both of them do. The mare’s pace quickens as she recognises the promise of rest. His own breath quickens. _Home_. He can let his shoulders slacken and his breath steady. Roach half-trots up the rest of the way, through the first gate, ever open since the portcullis got jammed one winter. Geralt tightens his hold on Roach’s reins, holding her back. He understands. He wants to sleep too. But she’ll pull something if he lets her sprint into the courtyard.

Vesemir is the first to greet them. He looks up from piling the last of the hay into the stables and offers his eldest pup a small smile. It’s nothing more than the corners of his lips twitching, but Geralt takes it all the same.

Geralt hops down from Roach, wincing slightly when numb toes make contact with the cobblestone ground. Gods, he’s tired. He barely flinches when Vesemir claps a hand on to his shoulder. “I’ll take her,” he says, already fishing the reins out of Geralt’s hands.

Roach paws at the ground, eager to have her tack stripped. When Vesemir leads her away to a waiting stall, she almost knocks him over.

He finds Eskel and Lambert within the keep, already picking at some food. Vesemir has some platters out and waiting on the dining table already. The main hall would have sat hundreds of them at one point, in heavy wooden tables that ran down the hall in three lines. The teachers would have sat at their own table at the head of the hall, keen eyes watching each pup gathered. Now, there are only four Witchers to hibernate within the keep. The halls have never seemed more empty and hollow.

Dried figs and shelled nuts, stripes of cured meats and ripe fruits. Food that Vesemir must have gathered from the villages at the bottom of the mountain. Geralt’s nose wrinkles at the familiar warming scent of stew. Lambert grunts, nicking an apple with his dagger. “We have enough stew for tonight and tomorrow. But someone will have to go hunting.”

Eskel just about manages to swallow a groan. _Someone_ will always turn out to be one of them; even though Vesemir is kind enough to let them rest, hunting a boar or deer and hunting a monster are two different things. Hunting in the forests surrounding the keep would be nothing to them.

His room is still how he left it, though with some dust starting to settle on the tops of his dressers. There’s still enough daylight left to crack the lancet windows open and let the room breathe for a moment. Stepping out on to the balcony, the wind whipping through the keep nips at his skin, bubbling it into gooseflesh. The forest shrouding the keep shivers with the wind, the treetops rippling like water.

Geralt watches the trees. He’s never been overly fond of the forests. Vesemir’s stories had them too scared of it as pups. A keen tactic to keep those young enough within the keep, and stop the occasional wander outside where pups would inevitably get lost and howl to come back home.

But something draws him to watch it now.

Sleep hasn’t always been friendly with him. The enchanters made it so that Witchers don’t need much sleep to begin with. But deep down, they were made from human bodies, and human bodies will cave in on themselves if not properly fed and rested. He’s surprised then when sleep drags him under that first night at the keep, not bothering to wait until he’s dragged the bed linens and furs up to his chest to stave off the worst of the night’s chill. When he wakes, it’s to a bright sun stretching its light into the room. It’s been a long time since he’s had a sleep still stick to his bones even when he tries to get up and out of bed. Vesemir will leave them rest, recover what energy they can, before he sets them to work.

It’s not that he jumped at the opportunity to go out into the forests. But Vesemir _did_ arch an eyebrow, regarding him for a moment, as he finished explaining that they’ll need two deer for provisions.

Geralt is already up and out of his chair before the elder Witcher can even finish his instructions. Vesemir trails after him as he strides out of the keep and into the courtyard, instructing Geralt on where the last herd of deer have been spotted and what route he needs to take. A bow slung over his shoulder and a full quiver at his side, Geralt heads off without saying much. The slopes of the mountains are shielded just enough for all sorts of animals to make their homes. To share the mountain with only four Witchers, foxes and squirrels and deer and rabbits have all made their homes here, content to graze and pluck berries from low hanging branches without being disturbed. Other forests have been tainted by the presence of monsters, with the soil poisoned by their very being existing there. The forest around Kaer Morhen has always been green, despite the winds trying to plough the trees down and heavy snowfall blanketing the peaks in the middle of winter.

Stepping into the thickets of trees, Geralt listens. The canopy rustles overheard, and distantly, Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of foxes barking. Birds chirp as they’re disturbed out of their nests by the wind, but flutter back once the worst is over. Geralt moves through the undergrowth as easily as he can manage. The floor here is not as busy or overgrown as it was back at the village. Trails wandered by him and his brothers have embedded into the ground, winding around the mountain in familiar paths. Geralt parts with the paths. The deer herds will be hidden further into the forest, sheltered and shielded by the trees and undergrowth.

Stepping into a forest again, Geralt listens. Something watched him on his walk up the mountain. Roach’s ears kept twitching, she kept glancing towards any gathering of trees she could find. Either the wind was just too strong and howling against his ears, or Geralt just couldn’t hear anything at all. Even at night, lured into a deep sleep, he hoped to wake to the sound of singing. He woke up to birds chattering outside, but that was it. He tried not to be disappointed.

The forest that shrouds the mountain has always been full of life and bright, even when winter rolls in and casts everything grey and horrid. The sun manages to break through some cloud, offering him moments of heat as he reaches out to him between the canopy above. But the wind withers any warmth away. It doesn’t bother him much. It’s been a while since he’s been bothered by the mountain’s winds.

A familiar sight greets him as he steps off of the path; a head of soft brown hair, somehow catching the light and shimmering, as if gold had been threaded through the strands. The fae’s ears twitch as Geralt unintentionally snaps a twig underneath his boot. Though, even if he didn’t, he’s sure Jaskier would have known him to be here.

The fae turns, and he looks the exact same as when Geralt left him in that past forest. A small frown knots the Witcher’s brow. “How did you get here?” he finds himself asking. Past lessons about the fae rush through his mind, but most of them blur into nothing but afterimages and whispers.

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “It’s a secret,” he lilts, tilting his head up to lounge in a breeze that blows through the trunks surrounding them. It rustles the leaves overhead and almost drowns out the sounds of birds being disturbed from their nests, but Jaskier sighs, contentedly. His feet barely disturb the ground as he pads around from tree trunk to tree trunk. He sets a gentle hand on the bark of each one, watching how the leaves shudder in the wind and the light tries desperately to reach through them. A small smile curls his lip. “I like it here.”

Something sits on the tip of Geralt’s tongue. _You might not be here for long_. Gods forbid if Vesemir got wind that Jaskier is here. His mouth sours at the thought.

Vesemir would never harm him. He knows when to stay his sword when a creature is concerned. Not all creatures and monsters have to meet the edge of a blade. But the thought of the fae being chased out of the forest he seems so at home in doesn’t sit well with him at all.

He stays his tongue. No need to ruin Jaskier’s good mood.

But it sours eventually. Jaskier eyes drop to his side, regarding the quiver full of arrows. He doesn’t speak, but just watches.

Geralt’s cheeks warm. He can only imagine what this might look like to someone like Jaskier. A protector and life-force of the forest, regarding a creature like Geralt – a killer, who means to take life for his own gains. The grip around his bow tightens.

The fae lifts his hand. “You need to eat,” Jaskier says simply, turning on his heel and striding into the thicket. He doesn’t have to glance over his shoulder to know that Geralt follows him. Walking with Jaskier, something just feels right about it. Watching how the forest parts for him, even letting Geralt stride through too, his chest tightens. His clothes are the same as the last time he saw the fae; a loose linen shirt, breeches, and barefoot. Even with augmented blood keeping him warm, Geralt looks down at the leather armour and cloak bundled around himself to keep the worst of the chill away. The winds don’t seem to bother Jaskier. If anything, he seems to enjoy them. He turns his head to them as they pass, a small smile curling his lip as if voices are carried along with them.

Jaskier leads them into an area with few trees, patches of grazing grass, and with a stream running down between the rocks. Geralt’s steps falter at the sight of a herd of deer. A few herds have claimed the mountain as their home, with elk staying further down where the grass is more plentiful. Jaskier still stands tall even as Geralt hunches, trying not to duck into the undergrowth for cover. The herds might be plentiful, knowing that they won’t encounter monsters up this high, but they’re still cautious. Wolves stalk through these forests.

The deer graze, oblivious to them being there. He imagines that they wouldn’t know Jaskier is there at all. He blends into the trees and the grass, moving through them without so much as a whisper. When a stag lifts his head, scoping the forest’s edge, and finds nothing of interest, he turns back to the mulch littered on the ground.

Geralt’s grip on his bow tightens. A stag that big would feed the wolves for a few days; there wouldn’t be any need to hunt two. Antlers woven like branches of a tree jut out of the stag’s head, with the seasonal shed already setting in. With the number of prongs on his antlers, Geralt guesses that the stag has been living within the forest for many years.

Geralt looks to Jaskier, the fae standing as still as the tree trunks shrouding them. The fae doesn’t look back, but rather keeps his eyes on the herd. Jaskier lifts his chin, peering over the swell of the herd to a nearby doe. She’s sheltered enough so that Geralt didn’t even spot her. Nestled by her side is a fawn, a tawny brown and splattered with white spots. The doe, probably a seasoned mother already, licks her baby’s head, getting the last of a tangy blood scent off of her. They don’t want to lure wolves.

Jaskier reaches out, settling a hand on to his arm. Even through his leather vambrace, Geralt can feel heat bloom into his skin. The fae looks at him then; an ocean of blue glistening and catching the light stretching into the forest floor. He nods. “Do you see?” he whispers, his lips barely moving, but the words brushing past the shell of Geralt’s ear all the same.

The doe and her fawn. Geralt watches them for a moment. The fawn is still so new to life, probably just born within the last hour or so. The doe stands, but stays near her baby. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches Jaskier crane his head, watching the mother and her fawn. “Whatever is taken has to be replaced,” Jaskier says lowly. “The forest must never go without.”

The fawn struggles to stand, stumbling, but its mother leans down and supports it with her head. The herd nearby watch, with some scanning the trees for anything lurking within. Though the winds have quietened, gently swaying the canopy overhead. It will hide any sounds he tries not to make. He can be quiet. Training throughout his childhood taught him to be as still and silent as a grave. But the forest doesn’t have as much reverence for him as it does for Jaskier. And twigs can still snap underneath his boot and leaves and branches can rustle and groan as he brushes past.

Geralt knocks an arrow, turning his sights back to the stag. He’s wandered off a bit, picking at a nearby tree with his antlers. It’s far enough away to not bother the herd. If it falls, they won’t disturb the rest of them – including the fawn just starting to get the hang of its legs.

Jaskier’s hand slips off of his vambrace.

* * *

Eskel jogs down the path to meet him. “Where did you find this?”

They share the brunt of the stag’s weight, with Eskel grabbing its hindquarters and helping haul it up to the keep. Geralt grunts, but keeps them staggering up the last stretch of hill before stepping into the courtyard. “In the lower slopes,” he offers simply. They carry the stag around the back of the storehouse, dumping it down on to a table for Vesemir to care for.

Eskel hums, scanning his eyes over the stag. It’s big, bigger than anything they usually encounter. But the notches and horns on the stag’s antlers can only show it’s age. It lived a long life, growing with every sun-turn. He makes a low sound. “Good shot,” he commends, reaching up to inspect the small puncture in the stag’s throat. It was a quick death. The stag didn’t even know that he was there.

Vesemir steps into the storehouse, already pulling one of his knives out of their leather sheathe. His brow climbs to his hairline at the sight in front of him. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” he says, a slight glimmer of marvel in his voice. He sets his hand on the stag’s flank, feeling out the meat underneath. He hums quietly under his breath before waving at his pups. “Now get out of here. You have other things to do today.”

 _Other things_ being the re-mortaring of the walls. Geralt glances up at them. With the weather more forgiving than the last week, he supposes now is as best a time to get up there with the mortar and repoint the stones. Eskel offers him a sympathetic look.

Enough meat is stripped from the stag to last a number of nights. The larger cuts are turned into seasoned roasts, taking up prime positions in the middle of the dining table during the night. Geralt thinks to the forest, wondering idly about the new faun. He didn’t manage to get a good look, but he likes to think that it’s a buck; that it will grow into a stag just as strong, or even stronger, than its father.

Jaskier words whisper to him. _The forest must never go without_. He’ll have to ask the fae; is he responsible for the keeping of the cycle of life within the forest? Does he see to things dying just so other things can live?

He picks at dinner, keeping to himself. The winters are often quiet, with Vesemir just appreciating the presence of other people, rather than the noise. He’s content to sit with his pups either here or within the great hall, nursing a goblet of wine or ale. It’s the only time of year where he isn’t alone. As for Eskel and Lambert—

Geralt glances up as another argument breaks out about something or other. How they ever got along as children, he has no idea. Now the two of them scrap over the last few slices of roasted venison, growling like actual wolves. Geralt huffs a short laugh at the tired sigh that escapes Vesemir.

* * *

It is one week before he hears it. The wind carries it up to him, up along the sturdy castle walls and in through the small crack in his windows. He leaves them open sometimes, in a faint hope of catching anything that could sound like a song. When the days blinked by and the nights dragged on, something told him to just shut the window. The fae was indeed out there, but maybe the forest was too expansive and the keep too thick.

But one night, when he’s warmed from dinner and a bath, looking at his turned down bed and ready to slip into it, he hears it. A fae’s song, drifting up through the treetops and carried with the wind. Geralt looks up from his desk, his journaling long-forgotten about. The ink from his quill drips and stains the page, but he can’t find himself caring at all. He stands, padding barefoot over to the balcony’s door.

The singing gets that bit clearer when Geralt steps outside, ignoring the harsh bite of the winter winds to wander over to the balcony’s railing. It’s Jaskier. He has no doubt about who it is. The familiar lull that washes over him like water; familiar, even though he’s only heard the fae sing once.

Something curls the corners of his lips. The fae wanted to sing, but kept bothering the village nearby. But here, perched on top of a mountain long forgotten about by anyone else, Jaskier can sing as loudly as he likes.

He isn’t sure how long he spends out there. The wind loses its bite after a time. Still, he does wander inside just to grab a blanket and curl it around his shoulders. A loose linen shirt and breeches aren’t outdoor wear – especially this far up the mountain. He’s mindful of watching the skies. At some point, when hours have probably slipped by and he hasn’t noticed at all, the sky turns from its ink-black to being streaked with purples and oranges. Just peering over a nearby ridge is the sun, starting its clamber upwards. The further they trudge into the thick of winter, the shorter the days are. By the time the sun finally perches, it has to begin falling again. The winters are slow to slip by; always digging in their heels and refusing to budge. Even when spring comes around and the last of the snows have melted, the winds don’t tend to settle or warm until summer is around the corner.

He slips back into his room when the winds become too much. Jaskier still sings, letting the breeze carry his voice throughout the mountain. Just as the warmth from the hearth starts to seep back into his skin, warming his muscles and bones, his eyelids grow heavy. Before long, he struggles to even keep his eyes open. Rubbing at them, trying to keep sleep from taking him under while he’s standing, Geralt manages to shuffle towards his bed. With a blanket still bundled around him, all he really does is stretch out over the top of the comforters, burrowing his face into the pillows and letting Jaskier’s singing lull him to sleep.

He all but melts into the mattress, with every twinge of tension slowly lured out of him by every lilting note from the fae outside. He can imagine him out there, among the trees and rocks, sheltering from the worst of the song. Maybe he delights in how easily the winds can pick up his voice and send it anywhere he wants. He’ll have to go back to the forest again and ask about his powers. For all that he was taught of the fae, he knows one knows who can tell him from experience. Just as humans on the Continent can get Witchers wrong, his old teachers might have had the same blurred vision when it came to certain creatures.

But for now, he’s lulled down deeper and deeper until the moonlight streaking into his room blurs and fades. It’s the best sleep he’s had in a while.

* * *

Geralt wakes to three heavy, rampant knocks against his door. He barely has enough time to rub the sleep from his eyes before he hears the heavy creak of his door opening and familiar footfalls thunder into his room.

“I know I didn’t hear a fae’s song last night,” Vesemir’s gruff voice cuts through the lingering tendrils of sleep still binding Geralt to the bed. He squints against the watery, bright morning light stretching into the room and looks up at his mentor. An ever-present scowl has only grown deeper. Vesemir turns his gaze to the balcony doors, still cracked open. “And I know for a fact that I didn’t hear any such singing all year long. Not until you and your brothers came home. So, before I go and hunt down those two to ask them, do you have anything you want to tell me?”

Geralt is old. He forgets how old he is sometimes. When you’ve lived as long as he has, the years tend to blur into each other and the earliest memories you have start to blur too. He can’t remember much of his younger years; just his years as a Witcher, and he has enough of those memories for several lifetimes. But he’s grown; a grown man who’s old and crotchety and can be a grump. And somehow, when Vesemir levels him with a certain golden glare, he reverts back to being that brown-haired, wide-eyed pup that ended up at the bottom of his mountain almost a century ago.

He rubs a hand over his face. “I got a contract from a village in the west,” he explains, wincing at how deep his voice is. It only lowers like that when he’s well-rested. And last night’s sleep was the best night’s sleep he’s had in a while. Vesemir’s expression doesn’t shift. “They said that they were hearing voices in the forest nearby and wanted someone to have a look.”

Vesemir arches an eyebrow.

Geralt sighs. “It was a fae. He’s harmless. He just wanted to sing. And when I left, he just...followed me here. He helped with the stag.”

Vesemir’s eyes roll and he catches the bridge of his nose. All of the lessons from his childhood rush back and crest over him in that moment. He knows. He can hear his teachers’ voices. But Vesemir takes a moment, steadying himself.

“Go out there and tell it that it can’t stay here,” Vesemir grounds out. It’s only then does Geralt notices the small smudges of shadows trying to settle under Vesemir’s eyes and hollow his cheeks. He might have slept through the night, but the eldest Witcher certainly didn’t. Before he can even give the elder an answer, Vesemir turns and storms out with a huff. There’s no answer to give. Geralt is going to have to go into the forest and have a word with Jaskier.

The thought of having to displace the fae tightens his chest. Especially now, in winter, with so many of the forests around the Continent dying. If he managed to appear here, maybe he can go somewhere warmer. Or do the colder climates suit him better?

Geralt’s mouth sours. He looks to the windows, wincing at the sight of heavy grey clouds slumped over a nearby ridge. Mustering as much energy as he can, he hauls himself out of bed and sets about the day; a terrible tight feeling in his gut at the thought of heading into the forest.

* * *

Lambert’s laugh follows him down the trail. “A fucking fae,” he giggles to himself, tugging his cloak tighter around himself to stave off the chill.

Geralt just about manages to swallow back a growl. “You don’t have to come with me, you know,” he throws over his shoulder, glowering at his younger brother with all he can with a wind biting at his face.

And Lambert, like always, brushes it off. Even the biting wind and the cold nipping at any exposed stretch of skin, he refuses to turn back. The keep is still within sight, sitting perched on top of the peak. The path is still good enough for him to walk back. But with the thought of seeing a fae – seeing _Geralt’s fae_ – he was more than happy to wrap a cloak around himself and follow his brother out into the terrible winter weather.

He follows the worn path he followed the first time; an old hunting trail that Vesemir showed him how to stalk game on. Lambert, to his credit, stays quiet as soon as they step into the forest. Though, Geralt eyes the way the Witcher’s hand drifts to the pommel of his sword, resting there but not gripping. Not yet, anyway.

Tutors spent years teaching them how to be quiet. Endless lessons on how to stalk a hunt and keep themselves safe. They may have their modifications, but monsters still had the upper-hand in being stronger and faster and lethal with teeth and claws and curses. The undergrowth of the forest barely shudders as he walks through it, keeping his eyes on every tree they pass.

The air around him shifts as he delves further into the forest. Jaskier might already know that he’s here, but maybe the presence of someone else will keep him away. He never seemed particularly shy. But two Witchers, one with their hand stubbornly settled on the pommel of his blade, might just put him off.

He could turn around and tell Lambert to leave.

Geralt blinks. Through the trees, he spots Jaskier. He keeps to the thicker undergrowth, shrouding himself with the trunks of the forest. He isn’t as naive to think that Geralt doesn’t know that he’s there. Or Lambert, if the other man’s breath hitching is anything to go by.

Geralt stops them in the middle of the path. The forest breathes around them, like it’s always done in the past, but he can’t help but wonder if Jaskier is afraid of the presence of someone else. There are eyes watching him that don’t belong to the fae. The trees towering above them and the birds nesting nearby watch and wait. One word, one movement from Jaskier, and the Witchers might just be chased out of their own forest.

And then Vesemir might have to have a few choice words with the fae.

Geralt clears his throat. He isn’t as bold as to step off the path. Despite the worn trails winding around the slopes and the mountain, the thicker undergrowth is for Jaskier. If that’s where he feels safer, surrounded by the things that he likes, then Geralt will leave him that. His tongue sits heavily in his throat, unwilling to move. But his nape warms at the thought of Lambert so close by. The other Witcher could be burning a stare into the back of his head.

 _Say something_.

Geralt’s lips manage to bumble something out. It might be some attempt at Jaskier’s name. It might have been a _hello_. He isn’t sure. But saying it, seemingly talking to himself among the trees and his brother, it seems strange.

The eyes among the trees watch them both. Even through the shroud, Geralt can faintly make out a small smile curling along the fae’s lip. “You brought a friend.”

His voice sounds as melodic as last time; washing over him as water would, quietly lapping and luring him down. He tries to shake the feeling off. Witchers get killed for letting their guard down. He takes a measured breath. “I did.”

Lambert manages to comport himself just enough to set his jaw. The normally talkative Witcher doesn’t say much, or anything for that matter, and Geralt doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the fire-haired Witcher tense as blue eyes land on him. Through the trees, Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of a light laugh. “No need to be so cautious, wolf pup,” Jaskier lilts. “I won’t harm you.”

At that, Lambert does move. He straightens. “I’m no pup, fae,” he growls. Geralt tries not to reach out and grab the Witcher’s arm. If he storms off, if he lurches into the thicket to try and chase the fae, Geralt isn’t sure what the creature would do to protect himself. And Geralt isn’t sure what he would do to try and protect his brother.

Jaskier blinks. “I meant no offense.” He tilts his head. “You just seem younger than my friend.”

Lambert snorts. “Your friend?” The Witcher turns to Geralt. “You found a friend in the forest? How lovely.”

The fae lifts his chin. Leaves and twigs and the undergrowth of the forest barely shudders or shifts as he strides forward. It almost seems to part for him as he steps out on to the path. Distantly, Geralt can hear Lambert’s breath quicken. He tries his best to school it, in a way that would make Vesemir proud for trying to clamp down on his apprehension, but it sours his mouth. He doesn’t want anyone afraid of anyone. And he wants Lambert’s sword to stay firmly by his side, sheathed. He turns to glance at the other Witcher, lowering his eyes to the man’s waist. Begrudgingly, and with a quiet huff, Lambert’s hand slips away.

Jaskier levels him with a smile; one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but is passable enough as polite. “Why have you brought a friend here, Geralt?” he turns back to the white-haired Witcher. Nothing sits behind his eyes like hurt, nothing at all like that. But he is curious. Is there a wolf pack nearby that he has to worry about? He knew what Geralt was before he even spoke a word to him. Does he know about the keep?

Lambert’s smile is more teeth than anything else. “Your singing kept us awake, little thing.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “All of you? I hope not,” he lulls. “I was hoping my songs would reach Geralt’s room; wherever in your stone palace that might be.”

 _So,_ Geralt thinks, _that answers that_.

“Wolves barred their den with runes and signs and the type of magic that would see me burned if I went anywhere near it,” Jaskier says, turning on his heel to regard the trees standing around them. The wind has died off slightly. “How am I to speak to my friend if he’s all the way up there?”

Lambert snorts. “Maybe we should leave Geralt to you then,” he reasons, folding his arms in front of his chest. “Would you like to spend your winter out here?”

Geralt glowers at him out of the corner of his eye. Lambert knows what words and looks can lure the worst out of him, even all of these years later. Beneath it all – the scars acquired on the path and the lines slowly sinking into their faces – they’re still pups.

Jaskier reaches out to a nearby tree trunk, settling his hand on to it. The trunk is covered in moss, fresh and plump from the night’s rain. His fingers barely disturb it. “I want to speak to my friend alone,” the fae murmurs, “if that’s agreeable with you, wolf?”

Lambert cocks his head. “Why? So you can lure magic on to him.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“What are your songs for then?” Lambert’s eyes narrow. “Who’s to say we won’t wake up one morning and find Geralt barefoot, standing and staring out at the forest, in some sort of trance? What if you lure him out of bed and over the balcony of his room?”

The arch of Jaskier’s lip lifts. “I don’t know what sorts of stories you were told about my kind, but we don’t do such things. I thought that being Witchers you might have some capacity to not listen to rumour and lies.”

Lambert huffs.

Around them, the air thickens. Something sizzles through it, nipping at their skin. Geralt tenses.

“You can leave,” Jaskier says calmly, but something glints in his eye as he regards the other Witcher, “or I can make you leave. It’s your choice.”

And some part of Geralt relishes in the idea of some woodland animals chasing Lambert out of the forest, or branches overhead reaching down and dragging him out by his ankles. But the Witcher glowers at the fae, biting the inside of his cheek, and turns on his heel. Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of something being muttered under the Witcher’s breath.

His brow furrows. “I’m sorry,” he rumbles, looking to the fae. “He’s...He’s a lot.”

Jaskier huffs a small laugh. “It’s alright,” he wisps, “I just needed him gone.” The far regards his forest for a moment, reaching out and setting his hand on the bark of a tree. All at once, whatever had been hissing through the air leaves and they’re left with birdsong.

Jaskier strides off in one direction, heading further into the forest. And Geralt follows.

Lambert will be fine. He tells himself that. The younger Witcher will head back to the keep and tell Vesemir of what he saw – that he was scolded by a fae and made go home with his tail tucked between his legs.

And despite the fact that Vesemir was the one to ask them to get the fae out of the woods in the first place, maybe he’ll be plied softer with the knowledge that something, or someone, finally managed to school some discipline into the pup. Maybe Jaskier can stay after all.

But his words about the keep still echo through Geralt’s mind. “I wasn’t aware the signs were still there,” he says after a time, following Jaskier through the thicket and undergrowth. The fae has no real trail in mind, but reaches out to every tree they pass and wanders further into the forest. Eventually, the canopy above them grows too thick for light to reach through. He follows Jaskier closely. He can still see, despite the light having dimmed. His eyes adjust and Jaskier looks at him from over his shoulder. He regards the Witcher’s golden eyes and changed pupils. “Interesting,” he hums, turning back around to continue on their walk.

After a time, Geralt realises that they have no real path in mind. He’s spent his life hunting through these forests, knowing most of the trails. But Jaskier leads him through stretches of land that he hasn’t seen before. Or maybe he has, and never thought to stay for a moment and appreciate all the green that still hangs around despite the winds and snow.

Jaskier lifts his chin as a fresh cold breeze blows through the trees. “Geralt,” he lilts, “are you here to tell me to leave?”

Geralt can’t help his throat bobbing. “Our mentor doesn’t want you here,” he mumbles, knowing that even though he struggles to hear his own words through the whistling wind, Jaskier can hear him just fine. “He didn’t say why but...I suspect it’s why my brother is distrusting of you.”

That makes the fae stop. He doesn’t look angry, or how he usually looks. He doesn’t look like anything, now that Geralt finally takes a moment to regard his face. Jaskier’s lips thin as he muses over the Witcher’s words. “I see,” he hums, looking up at the canopy. “I would like to meet him.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Your mentor,” Jaskier replies. It’s easy and languid as he usually talks with Geralt, and he doesn’t take his eyes off of the rippling treetops. When he does look back to Geralt, the familiar glint is in the fae’s eyes. “I’d like to speak with him. With your permission, of course.”

Geralt cocks his head. “You might not like it as much as you think you would,” he grumbles quietly. Because Vesemir is protective of them all; and he has done more readings than most about all sorts of creatures living within the Continent. Maybe he knows something about Jaskier that Geralt doesn’t. Maybe the fae is inherently bad, and having him here is terrible, and he should leave.

But even in the depths of winter, when the winds are changing and lashing and turning everything shades of grey, the forest is full of life and Geralt can hear and feel it. Maybe it was always here and he just never noticed. He only ever comes into the forest for hunts, and maybe to take a short walk away from the keep. He loves his brothers, but every so often, Lambert can push him too far and he needs to get away.

Geralt’s throat bobs. “I can get him for you,” he says. “But I’m not sure how he would react to you.”

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “I’ll be polite.”

* * *

He walks with Vesemir as far as he can, before the fae asks him to stay.

Vesemir isn’t Lambert, and it’s a blessing in disguise. The elder Witcher nods gruffly when Jaskier inclines his head, a simple invitation to follow. The fact that Vesemir even follows the fae into the forest – into _Jaskier’s_ domain – has something horrid and cold nipping at Geralt’s bones. He watches his mentor sink further into the forest, but just enough so that they stop by a fallen tree branch. Jaskier gestures to it. Vesemir sits without much fuss, but does huff an aged sigh when he’s settled. It isn’t long before Jaskier joins him, side by side, but a sliver of space between them.

It’s an odd sight, he’ll admit. Vesemir’s sword sits dutifully by his side, sheathed and still, but still an arm’s reach away. Not that Jaskier would ever do anything. In the few times they’ve spent time together, the fae hasn’t even raised his voice, so much as lashed out. He speaks to Vesemir with a certain reverence, however. And Geralt can’t take his eyes off of it. Vesemir returns it when he can, letting his shoulders finally stoop after a time when silence laps over them.

He isn’t sure how long they stay there. Something inside of him says he should probably leave; slink away and return to the keep. Vesemir can look after himself. And this doesn’t seem like something he should be watching. He takes a few paces forward and back on the trail, nudging some fallen twigs and leaves out of his way with the toe of his boot. It reminds him of being a pup, waiting out in the halls for Vesemir to be done with his

Familiar blue eyes glance back to him, and it takes a lot of effort for Geralt to keep his legs underneath him. Jaskier regards him for a moment before the ghost of a smile dusts his lips. He turns back to the elder Witcher, mumbling something under his breath.

And that’s when Geralt’s frown etches that bit deeper into his brow.

_What in the name of the gods are they talking about?_

Geralt almost chokes on his own breath when Vesemir stands, wincing slightly at how the winds treat his bones and joints. Jaskier offers him a small sympathetic look. He stays among the undergrowth and the trees while Vesemir makes his way back towards the paths. His expression in completely unreadable, and Geralt tries his hardest to try and read anything off of the other man. Vesemir knows how to school himself calm.

When he approaches Geralt’s side, he pauses for a moment. He speaks, but it’s nothing more than a small rumble, almost lost to a passing breeze. “He may stay.”

Geralt blinks, and while Vesemir walks away and almost clears himself of the shroud of the forest, Geralt finally catches up on what the elder had just said.

 _He can stay_.

The Witcher looks to Jaskier and finds the fae smiling softly at him.

* * *

“So,” he hears someone lilt as soon as he steps into the grand hall, “you have a new friend?”

Eskel isn’t the worst person to find within the hall. He quietly thanks all of the gods he can think of that it isn’t Lambert instead; though he’s sure he’s already spun enough gossip and stories as he can about the Witcher and his fae friend to whoever he could find. Geralt grunts, keeping his head low as he stalks towards the fire. He didn’t notice the light changing as he spent most of the day traipsing through the forest with the fae, content to walk alongside or behind Jaskier as he lilted and lulled the forest. A passing herd of elk they stumbled upon didn’t even bristle at the sight of them when they stepped into a clearing. The reigning stag merely lifted his head, acknowledged them both, and went back to grazing.

Once the light faded and the winds threatened to start picking up, Geralt returned to the keep. Jaskier walked with him as far as the edge of the forest, where the trees started to thin and scatter about. He wouldn’t go any further, no matter how many times Geralt assured him that any magic shrouding the keep could be broken. But no. Jaskier set a warm hand on to his shoulder and sent him on his way with a smile. He can still feel the warmth blooming through his shoulder, through the spaulders of his armour and his thick woollen shirt.

As he draws near to the main hearth, the chill is shrugged off.

Eskel chuckles lightly, nursing a tankard of ale. “I almost didn’t believe Lambert,” he muses, “being as full of shit as he usually is. But when Vesemir came back, I knew he was telling the truth.”

Eskel tilts his head just enough to try and get a peering look at Geralt. “Must have made a very good impression if Vesemir is letting him stay.”

He must have. Geralt has been thinking over it ever since the elder Witcher headed back to the keep. Jaskier remained stubbornly tight-lipped on the matter, preferring to tell Geralt the history of the mountain and the Continent and all of the life living on and off of it. Jaskier’s years extend written history. He’s older than the keep, than possibly the mountain itself; if how nature holds such a high regard for him.

Geralt hums. The less he can say about any of it, the better. Rising to Lambert will only break a fight between them, and even though Eskel might be the calmer of the two, he can lure a rise out of Geralt too – but the difference being that Eskel knows when to drop something. He says nothing more about the fae in the woods, finishing off the last of his ale and staggering to his feet to get more. He lifts his tankard. “Want one?” he murmurs.

Geralt sits in his usual spot; an old worn seat to the side of the fire, close enough to keep him warm and a good eye line to the main door; a force of habit that he’s never been quite able to shake off. He looks up and nods. Eskel slips away into the shadows, padding down the long hallways of the keep without making a sound.

Geralt watches the flames of the fire for a moment, staring at the crackling logs and spitting embers jumping out on to the cobblestone floor. The forest still lingers in his mind, and the conversations now hidden within it. He would like to leave it among the trees, but when the door of the main hall cracks open and Vesemir steps inside, he can’t help but straighten in his seat.

The elder wolf regards him before stepping further into the hall, stalking over towards the hearth and scratching his beard. “Thought I might find you here,” he rumbles, “though I’m surprised you had any mind to come back inside at all.” He takes his usual seat; a worn armchair in front of the hearth. The glow of the fire washes over him. “I suppose you’re down here musing about what I must have discussed with your friend.”

Geralt’s jaw sets. “You spent long enough talking with him,” he replies. He won’t deny being curious. Vesemir has watched him ever since he was a boy. He knows all of Geralt’s tells and behaviours.

Vesemir nods sagely, keeping his golden eyes on the wisping of the hearth’s flames. He muses over his words for a moment, letting them sit perched on his tongue. Vesemir doesn’t look at him. “He asked me how you were getting on up here, with us,” he says slowly, measured, as Vesemir is often wont of doing. “I told him you were fine. You were getting on with your life.”

Geralt’s brows knit together. It’s not what he expected to hear out of the elder, and he knows to let the old wolf finish before trying to lure more out of him, but Vesemir loosens a long sigh and catches the bridge of his nose. “What do you remember of your mother, Geralt?”

That’s...

The question floors him. He jaw flexes. “Not much,” he says truthfully. She’s a faded afterimage lingering in the back of his mind. He can remember the shape of her, and in the more delirious of recoveries from bad injuries, he thinks he can remember how her voice sounded or how warm her touch was on his forehead, waning the worst of a fever out of him. But other than that, she could approach him now and be a total stranger.

Vesemir watches the hearth’s flames, not quite managing to bring his eyes over to Geralt just yet. The old wolf has never been the most paternal, though he tried. On the worst nights of their training, he had helped where he could; where he was _allowed_ to by the other teachers lording over him. Now he has three pups of his own to care for, and while he’s able to reach out and meet them halfway, he knows that it’s still a struggle to conjure words to share with them.

Vesemir takes a steadying breath. “I was in the keep that day; the day I found you down by the roadside. I don’t remember what I was doing, but I do remember a sudden change in the wind. It had been a kind day that day. Warm and still and calm. And then some stray breeze blew through the keep and its walls, and I didn’t think anything of it. We were up on a high peak. The weather can change as quick as anything.”

Geralt watches him, leaning forward slightly in his seat to listen to the words start to tumble out from Vesemir’s lips.

“I didn’t think much of it until I heard a voice. I couldn’t describe it at the time, and I still don’t think I can. It sounded as solid as any other voice around me. I thought Varin might have said something, but he didn’t. He didn’t hear anything. So I ignored it. I went out to observe the pups training their drills, and I heard it again.”

A voice lost in the wind; or a voice using the wind to travel. Geralt’s brow furrows.

Vesemir laughs; quiet and through a breath, but the corners of his lips twitch and something akin to disbelief flashes through his eyes. “I heard it again, as clear as anything. Something told me to go from the keep, to walk down the paths to the foot of the mountain,” Vesemir hums. “I couldn’t describe it to the others but there was this _urge_ to go. I went down along the trails, not knowing what I would find. But I didn’t feel alone. I looked around, hand on my sword, but whoever walked with me didn’t pose any sort of threat. When I reached the foot of the mountain, the voice told me to stay. So I did. I waited and the day dragged on, but then...”

Vesemir takes a steady breath. “I saw you. A tiny little thing, calling out for your mother. And whoever was with me nudged me forward. I couldn’t leave you out in the wilds by yourself.”

 _Geralt, I’ve been waiting for you_.

The voice, even now all these years later, ghosts against the shell of his ear. His skin trembles into gooseflesh. He remembers it now; Ma and their cart, the bucket that swung by his side as he padded down to the stream, the chilling panic that started to creep into his chest when Ma was nowhere to be found.

Geralt watches the elder, unblinking. _Surely..._

Vesemir turns to him then, his eyes as firm as they’ve always been but something trembling within them. “I don’t know if you can thank your fae for bringing you into the life you have, but he led me to you regardless. You would have died out there once the sun started to set and I couldn’t in good conscious leave you out there. I know you didn’t want to come with me. That you spent so much of your youth afraid of me and the others and what was happening. But...” Vesemir trails off, looking down at his lap and the fidgeting hands perched on them.

The elder’s words swirl around him, almost smothering. Geralt wants to leave. Everything is telling him to stand up and bolt to his room. And it’s something a younger him would do. When he was barely out of his childhood years with rounded, soft cheeks and a mop of curly brown hair falling into his eyes; when the keep towered above him, reaching and disappearing into the clouds above.

But now something roots his feet into the ground and he’s stuck to his chair, despite the small tremor in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me this?” slips out from his lips, unable to stop it even when he tries to snap his jaw shut.

Vesemir muses over his answer for a moment. “It sounded strange, to try and explain to you that a voice led me down that path to find you. Then again, stranger things have happened. But As you got older, the voice never came back. The feeling of someone watching lingered. I felt it every so often. But I thought nothing of it. It wasn’t until you came back this year, claiming that you experienced something similar...I didn’t think it could be the same being, but it is.”

 _He can stay_. Vesemir’s own words sit with him. The old wolf didn’t have any issue taking a sword and crossbow out into the woods to deal with their earlier problems of monsters and creatures lingering outside. He, alongside most of the other teachers within the keep, kept the forests clear of anything that could cause harm to the wolves inside. Yet, apparently, Vesemir holds no issue with Jaskier lingering outside.

The elder lifts his chin. “I’ve loosened the wards on the gates,” he murmurs, turning back to watch the hearth crackle and spit again. “If he wants, he may come inside.”

It’s been a long time since Vesemir, the now reigning head of the keep, has granted entrance to anyone who hasn’t worn a Witcher’s medallion strung around their neck. And even then, he’s turned away those from southern schools, ones who have irked him in the past and hold no morals, where he’s concerned. Even Aiden, just by being a Cat, had to fight tooth and nail to be granted entrance, with even Lambert getting involved.

But to someone like Jaskier – it’s unheard of.

Though he doesn’t wait for the old wolf to retract his request. Before his mind can catch up with him, Geralt bolts out of his chair and starts heading for the face of the forest, hoping that someone will be there waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fun little sequel to the previous chapter. And what's that? Did I...Did I just see a smidge of ✨ plot ✨???? Unheard of in this part of town. I don't think I'll add to this fic, but I'm not entirely sure yet. In case I don't, know that Geralt hoisted his new fae friend over his shoulder and brought him into the keep, sat him by the fire, and kept him all winter. And Jaskier and Vesemir had more chats about Baby!Geralt being a cutie. 
> 
> Also, do people think Jaskier saved Geralt's life or just doom him to the one he has now? We love to see difficult questions in my writing that I don't answer, but leave the audience to decide among themselves 🥰

**Author's Note:**

> **Just a bit of lore because it's fun;   
> 1) I've blended a headcanon I've had for years about sirens/merrows (Irish mermaids, I'm Irish yo) and the fae. Sirens and mermaids lure people in by sounding like those who the listening yearns for (more popularly, it revolves around sexual attraction). I ran with the idea of women hear men, men hear women, some women hear women and some men hear men, and then some people don't hear anything at all. So that was fun to finally get a use for that mythological headcanon in somewhere. Listen, if I heard the dulcet tones of Joey Batey (or Madeline Hyland) you better fucking believe I'm bolting head-first into a forest, it's spookiness be damned. 
> 
> 2) Fae can "teleport", provided that they have a tunnel to do so. Fae are mostly shaped around the Aes Sidhe (Irish creatures that settled Ireland before humans), a race of people who knew how to navigate portals in and out of different worlds. Jaskier asks Geralt about the forests around Kaer Morhen bc he absolutely has a portal waiting for him to dive into and hop out just as Geralt is settling into the keep for the winter. Get ready for a winter of singing, Geralt. 
> 
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> 
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> 
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